


End of the Final Problem

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Jewelry Heist, M/M, crime solved, incest spoken not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: My version. No Euros. It all ends here. Tied up neatly. Well, maybe not so neat!





	End of the Final Problem

**Author's Note:**

> implied incest.

It's bad enough that I don't sleep well. But, without warning, I'm having nightmares, visions of the past. Perceptions jumbled, not understood, but implicit enough to need clarification.  
I have to ask Mycroft, as he's a large part of these hallucinations. The prospect of having Mycroft, my older brother who scratches at all the irritating segments of my brain, explaining these images is alarming.

"Sherlock, you have to do something. The nights you wake screaming outweigh the good nights. It's becoming a problem, not only for you but me also," John, my flatmate, is cooking eggs while I stand in the doorway watching.  
" You don't understand. Mycroft is a player. I know it's in my mind palace, but that door refuses to open all the way. To let me see with clarity."  
"Call him. Explain what you're experiencing and let him talk you through it."

"He'll lord it over me; you know that."

It takes an evenings event to convince me that Mycroft is paramount to making sense of it all.

During the day I had been working on solving a jewelry heist.

it was now late into the night, John already in his room, and even from the parlor, I could hear his snoring.

The house where the robbery took place was scrutinized top to bottom by John and me only this morning. I noticed the victims shoes, half a dozen, lying in his closet. Handmade. Not many people can afford that luxury.

My laptop is flipped open, investigating the owner of the shoe factory.  
I know there is a connection between the theft and the owner of the factory, but I'm not finding the thread.  
"What is it? Why and how are they linked?" talking to myself in a whisper.  
It should be uncomplicated, clear and straightforward.

Staring at the screen, I've brought up the picture of the outside of the factory, a man, apparently the owner, standing in the doorway.  
Staring, staring. There's something about him.  
Bringing the picture into further focus, I see a ring on his finger.  
The ring! What about the ring?

The jewelry had been stolen from the house of a prominent lawyer. He had photos of all his important documents and all the jewelry.  
That's it!  
The ring on the business owners finger matches the same as the one taken from the house.  
He was not the perpetrator.  
But--the lawyers' lover?  
They, judging by the rings, had been lovers for many years. There's more Sherlock, much more. Use your observation powers.

The names! It has to do with names.  
The lawyers last name is Jamison. The shoe factory owner is Jamis. They were not only lovers but brothers!  
Brothers as lovers? Cannot be!

Images flash in front of me! Mycroft, white, white nightshirt, Mycroft's face, Mycroft--Mycroft---Mycroft!

Slamming my fist on the table, I can't see; clearly, all muddied, images floating in my eyes.

Standing up, dizziness overtaking me, I hit the table with my knees and overturn it. Images--Victor--Mycroft---Mycroft.

Trying to rout out the mental pictures where my memory is stored, I grab my head between my hands, squeezing, shouting.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, what the hell is going on? I heard a bang," John, yelling, comes down the steps, pajamas on, looking all around.  
"Arrhggghh, it won't stop, make it end, "tearing at my hair.  
John latches onto my hands to pull them out of my tangled curls and pushes me on the sofa.  
"Get control of yourself! Do you hear me," his voice an octave higher.  
Picking up the blanket from the sofa I wrap it around my head, squeezing it tight, So John's voice comes out muffled.  
"Okay, that's it. I'm giving you something to quiet you and tomorrow we're calling Mycroft," the doctor's voice kicking in.

Waking to feel my head exploding, I try to sit,"Ohhh, no good," and lie back on the sofa. John left me here all night after I swallowed a sleeping pill.  
Why the hell didn't I go into my room? My bed?

* * *

"Johhhhnnn, "calling out to him, my voice shaky.  
"I'm right in the kitchen, Sherlock, making you breakfast. You'll eat as much as you can, but eat you will."

Sausage, eggs, bacon, assorted veggies, corn muffins, and tea.  
"No. Not the bacon or sausage," my stomach turning at the sight of those greasy items.  
John heaves a sigh but doesn't fuss.  
I do manage to put at least something into my stomach.

"Mycroft will be here soon. Go take a shower, and that will make you feel better."

"Mycroft, I think I'm losing my mind," after my brother, John and myself secure seats in the parlor of our flat.  
"Drugs again?" his mouth puckered, his umbrella between his legs.  
"No. You know that's not true. Why expect that? I haven't used in two years."  
John nods his head up and down, "He's telling the truth. The only reason he's so haggard looking is lack of sleep."

"I'm having vivid images, nightmare-like. It's been getting worse and last night," gazing at John," oh, by the way, John- I solved the lawyer's stolen jewelry. Blackmail all gone wrong. Thief--,"  
"Never mind that right now. Talk to your brother while he's here."  
"What images Sherlock? What could be so troubling?"  
"You feature prominently in them. As Victor does. And Redbeard--my dog? Did I have a dog?" my head cocked to one side. Puzzling!

" Also don't remember our parents participating in my childhood. Why is that?"  
"Mummy and Daddy were too involved with their careers to devote to a late born child. I and cook became your primary caretakers before my entrance into university."

Head between my hands, rocking myself, I hesitate to go on.  
"You played games with me, read books with me--you gave me my first violin," not daring to look up.  
"Yes, and you self-taught the violin and the piano. But it was the violin you clung to, loved holding in your hands. What else do you remember?"

"Running through a stream playing--pretending--I remember a pirate hat, sword, and sash. You never wanted to join me; it was not you who accompanied me as a pirate."

Taking a minute to think it through, "why didn't you want to play a pirate?"  
Confronting him, his face so impassive, not a sign of empathy.  
"I was not the outdoor, boisterous type. Preferred studious diversions."

My body has to move, has to find a place and I pace the room, stepping onto and over the table top and flop in the chair, feeling trapped.  
"Redbeard," I whisper, stuttering, "Victor."  
"Go on Sherlock," the monotone pronouncement that Mycroft makes has me too agitated to sit, and I rise, go to the window and freeze in place, wrapping my arms about me, and rock back and forth on my heels. 

I continue to study my brother.

* * *

Mycroft motions to John," No, don't," when he begins to get up, possibly with the idea of bonding with me.  
A show of force against my brother.

* * *

"Redbeard. Not a dog. The name of a pirate! Victor!"  
Unfolding my arms, I beat a rhythm on the back of my chair with my fists, "Redbeard. I played pirate with Victor. He was Redbeard, and I was Blackbeard."  
Sitting down, hunched forward, "Victor Trevor was the child of our cook. They lived downstairs in the basement."  
"Cook brought him to us when her husband died. You were the same age. Yes, he became your only childhood friend."  
"Why haven't I thought about him? Why block him out?"

* * *

I look up, dazed, to see John leaning forward watching our interaction.  
"Would anyone like tea? I think a break is required, don't you?"  
"Yes, John. Tea would be wonderful. I'm dehydrated," my mindful flatmate and doctor sensing my needs.

All the while John is in the kitchen, both Mycroft and I sit quietly, myself dragging that damn door open, Mycroft--his usual stoic self seemingly slightly rattled.

* * *

John has found chocolate chip cookies and laid them out on a plate and poured tea.

No one spoke during this time. All that we heard was the gentle sound of the cups, and the clock on the mantle ticking.

"Do you want to continue to open that door, Sherlock? It could be catastrophic."

"That's a harsh word to use, Mycroft. Catastrophic for who?"

* * *

The older brother traces a line on the carpet with his umbrella, "Both of us."

* * *

Pausing to take a breath," I have to persist. Have to."

Leaning forward in my chair, hands clasped in front, "Victor was tutored alongside me. He was not as clever but had a wonderful wit. He soaked up anything concerning nature. He was the one to find animals hurt in the wild and care for them."  
Back up to the walking and pacing.

* * *

"Why, why did I obstruct the memory? Why can't I open this door?"  
"The memories of who you are in the carnal sense arise from Victor and I, Sherlock. You've blocked them out-- until now."  
"Carnal? Sex you mean?"  
He nods. My brother nods. That's all he can do? Nod?

* * *

" Sex? Why is that a reason?"  
"It is, dear brother."

* * *

" I can't, can't see it. But I know there's something--."  
"Delve deep."  
Lifting my head," If you know so much, why not--,"  
" My dear brother, I think it's best if John leaves now," his umbrella kicking up towards the doctor.  
"No. He's family. He stays!" raising my voice, imagining the pulsating sound vibrating towards my brother and knocking that smirk off his facade.  
Mycroft sighs, looks down at the carpet, tracing the pattern with his rainy day implement.

" You were precocious, always exploring."  
"But you brought up sex! Most of the time Victor and I slept in the same bed. What was the fault in--, oh, oh," sinking into the sofa, my face covered by my hands.  
" You do recollect now. You were both thirteen. I was home and passed by your door. I thought you were relieving yourself. Then I heard Victor's voice, and I knew--."  
" No, no can't be. Did not take place."  
"Come Sherlock. You're avoiding the real issue. You know it."  
" Nothing occurred. Nothing. We always spent the night in bed together. Nothing--."  
Swaying back and forth, my hands between my legs, I can't keep my body still.

I face the truth, spilling it out," It was exploratory at first. It quickly became addictive, for both of us," recognizing it as reality, confessing.

"Excuse me, I feel the need to have more tea and make a sandwich. Anyone up for it?" John murmurs as he walks to the kitchen.  
Both of us not answering, John shrugs and continues.

While John is in the kitchen, I have a warning that there are words that will soon be spoken that will shatter me. And Mycroft.

John is again in his chair, tea and a ham and cheese sandwich on the table next to him.

" Think back to one evening, one evening in particular. You were thirteen. I was home from university," Mycroft says, " Go into your mind palace. It's all there."  
"Nothing. Nothing."  
"I'll assist. It was a scorching summer. Our parents wanted to go to the seashore for a weekend. You were adamant that you didn't want to go. Mummy called me, and I came home from university to stay with you."

Shaking my head, trying to clear the confusion," Where were Victor and Auntie?"  
Auntie was the name I had given to Victors mum when I first learned to speak.

"Visiting relatives. You were to be by yourself, and I was called in to keep you company."  
Clasping my hands in a tight grip, staring at the carpet, as if it would become that magic carpet and remove me from this flat. Remove me from my fears.

"I remember you coming into my room in a white nightshirt."  
"Yes continue," my brother says. A crack in his voice, a faint shaking of the hand on his thigh.  
My fingers press into the sides of my head, squeezing out the memories.

"You sat on my bed, waking me. I had nothing on, my sheet kicked down, and tried to cover myself. You stopped me saying," looking at Myc, surprise catching me, "the east wind is coming, Sherlock."  
John looks at both of us, mouth open, eyes wide, "But that's the saying that you, Mycroft, used numerous times in the last few years about Moriarty but how--?" John declares.  
Mycroft waves me off, "let Sherlock figure this out."  
"If it was about Moriarty, but how could it be? He wasn't even in the picture then! How could you know--?"  
"Think again. Moriarty had nothing to do with the east wind. Go deeper. Open that mind palace door more." 

Mycroft has begun to rock in his seat as Sherlock is doing and I think to myself, John, you're watching both brothers unravel.  
Maybe now I'll learn what makes them tick.

" You took off--." Mycroft nods. Again, that nod!

* * *

What happens next is so fast and unthinkable that I don't register it, hearing Sherlock screaming obscenities at Mycroft.

"You fuck, you mother fucker, you shithead--."  
Sherlock leaps up and directs a punch to Mycroft's face and sits on his lap, pummeling left and right.  
Vaulting up out of my seat, I reach the two of them, my arms around Sherlock's waist, struggling to pull him away from his brother, all the while that Sherlock is screaming.

"Bastard, you piece of crap."  
With a jerk and thrusting myself backward, I manage to pull Sherlock off, and both of our bodies land on the floor, Sherlock on top of me.  
Mycroft's nose is bleeding profusely, and while holding Sherlock around his neck with one arm, I reach into my pocket and throw Mycroft a handkerchief.

"Get off me you--," twisting so violently I'm forced to sit on his body, my hands holding both of his tight on his chest.

His face is one I have never seen. Eyes blazing, mouth set tight, face flushed.

"Sherlock. I'll let you up but only if you settle down. Promise me."

"John, what he--," he emphasized by his spitting it out, "what was done--."

"Can I let you up and you'll tell me?" Sherlock resists still, pushing and shoving at me.  
I can see the breath quieting within him, and letting his hands go; he places them at his side. 

On my knees first I wait and then stand and give him my hand. He takes it standing up, and not looking at his brother he sits back down.

"Mycroft, can I get you anything? Some ice?"

"John, it warrants his anger. I'm fine." Mycroft slowly stands, the handkerchief still at his nose," I'm leaving. I will be here tomorrow at eleven. Tea would be comforting," and bowing his head to me he leaves.

"John. Go away. Leave me."  
I know that he has to have time to sort out whatever this is, so I put on my coat and head down the steps.

I don't come home until after midnight. Sherlock is plunked down on the sofa, facing away from me.  
Do I go over to him?

"John," comes the muffled voice," go to sleep. I don't require anything from you."  
And so I do what he asks.

* * *

Waking up, showering and dressed, I have a sense of dread.

* * *

Sherlock has not moved from the sofa except to turn and face front. But his eyes never touch mine.  
We say nothing.  
I make a simple toast and tea for us.

* * *

I hear the steps of Mycroft and see Sherlock tense up.  
Mycroft sets down in the straight back chair, smoothing his trousers, tranquil compared to the unease of Sherlock and me.  
I pour tea for the two of them.

"Pour yourself one, John and sit," A command  
I do as asked, my stomach twisting.

Mycroft begins by clearing his throat," the east wind. An organization of like-minded men. Men who like men. It was time for the east wind to come to you."  
My eyebrows must hit the ceiling," Are you talking about Victor and Sherlock or you and--," pointing my finger at Sherlock, not able to give voice to what was being inferred by this stolid person.

" Mycroft that would be incest!"  
"How better to learn than from his older sibling. Would you continue your deductions, Sherlock?"  
" Your nightgown came off. And you took me in your hand and--," wringing his hands, he now, finally stares at Mycroft.  
"You spent the night. I can recall it all now. Two nights.."

Sherlock cocks his head to one side, contemplating.  
When he speaks next, his whole demeanor has changed. Soft.  
" I loved the kindness, the deliberate slowness. You were most attentive to my every whim. Mycroft, I reveled in it. No one other than you had ever paid any mind to me, except Victor," his voice deep, throaty.

I stare between the two, disbelief in what Sherlock has just said out loud and the way he said it.

" Sherlock didn't it bother you that he was-."  
"No John. He was guiding me. Instructing me."  
"And because of that, he messed you up sexually," slapping my hands on my knees, " yea to brotherly love."

What the hell is this? Why is Sherlock so accepting of Mycroft's-- whatever you call it. Not wanting to put the name to it.

* * *

"John, that wasn't the factor. I knew that Sherlock and even Victor were delving into the beginnings of their sexuality. I did it to ensure that Sherlock received the proper care and knowledge."  
"Why did you do that? Why not Victor?" I ask.  
" Victor was too emotional. He might have spoken out. Sherlock, on the other hand, already knew how to keep his thoughts to himself. In the mind palace, he had created."

* * *

Both men regard each other, brother to brother.

* * *

"You left that Sunday for the university you were attending, and we never spoke of it again until--the incident, am I right Mycroft?"  
My turn to shutter.  
John is reaching over to try to comfort me, but he sits too far, and I motion not to touch me.  
"Until Victor died and you came home when-- you heard about it--."  
"What happened?" on the outside of this experience, only sitting in because Sherlock wishes it.  
"He killed himself."  
"No Sherlock, he fell in the well. It was an accident. Stop deluding yourself."  
"No, No he committed suicide," I can't control myself, jumping from the chair, I shout it out.  
"Sherlock you only thought that because--," Mycroft leans into me," you placed that in your mind palace and--"  
I can't sit, pace the room, wringing my hands," Victor and I continued as lovers until I went to university. We were going to keep in touch, to visit with each other. He told me his parents were moving to France. He wanted me to quit and take a flat with him."

" How did I not know of this?"

"You were too busy establishing your career," striding back and forth, I'm at a loss as to how to continue.

"Sherlock, why do you think that Victor's death was a suicide?" John asks.

" The night before-- before his death, Victor found me in my room. We made love. He pleaded with me to give up schooling and go away with him. I told him it was no use. We could never be together. Our families would quickly dissolve the arrangement," forcing myself to sit, my head lies back on the chair, staring up at the ceiling.  
"Victor took out a bottle of Percocet and threatened to take the damn things that night. I wrestled it away, and he left. When the police came to our house with the news, I immediately knew. Knew Victor had found a drug to ingest." "If that happened that way, why didn't you tell the police?" this time John's voice carries a harshness to it.

"How do you know he climbed down?"  
Humpfing at Mycroft, "We learned at a young age how to find the right vines. I imagine he did that to escape detection."

"Did anyone do an autopsy, Mycroft?" John asks rather sharply.

"No. He was, after much searching found in the well and it was assumed--."

"Since when does the great Mycroft Holmes assume anything?" the doctor angrily spits out.

Mycroft chooses not to answer, and the room settles into an uneasy quiet.

John looks at Mycroft and to me, finally says,"Why now? Why is this happening now? These nightmares."  
"For all these years, I've watched over Sherlock. I see I might have been mistaken in the actual cause. It was those times that--," and Mycroft cuts himself off, wiping his eyes.

"And since then have you and he--?"

Fearing the answer.

His face becomes prune-like, "No, why would I ever-- not since that night."

Looking at his fingernails, scratching at one, " From the moment you stepped into Sherlocks' life, you changed his perspective on people. He'll give his life for you."  
If I dare glance at Sherlock and see that 'deduction' look, I swear I'll--, "there's nothing-- I--am--"  
Mycroft abruptly raises his eyes,"If you use that excuse one more time John! Now--let Sherlock continue. Sherlock look at John, really look. Observe. Finish these nightmares."  
The curly haired detective does that Sherlock thing as he always does, focusing so intensely that under his scrutiny I have a hard time not wiggling.  
Sherlock's eyes widen, his mouth opens, and he points--at me--" He has the same features as Victor, only not as tall. Is that why I'm having feelings for John!"  
"Wait, wait! What do you mean by feelings?"  
"John let Sherlock reason this out for himself before you interject."  
Shit! My flatmate? The man who told me his work is his all to him?

"From the moment you walked into Barts with Mike I felt a pull toward you. You were somehow familiar. Someone whom I felt necessary to my existence. That's why I so readily accepted you as my flatmate."  
" I also felt a draw to you, you git. With all your faults and bad habits," my heart twisting, knowing what he's saying and what I'm inferring.  
" It's been a bumpy ride, John but we've weathered it all, haven't we?" Sherlock quietly says.

Hauling himself out of his chair, his umbrella in his hand, Mycroft gives me an intense stare," John Watson, time to own up to your inclinations. Speak of it aloud."

"Sherlock and John, it's not accidental that you two are thrown together. The universe is rarely so lazy." 

With that, he nods in our direction and, swinging his umbrella takes himself down the steps and out of 221B Baker Street.


End file.
